


The Absent Spaces

by Paxavoo



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, M/M, Maybe happy ending?, Multi, OT3, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, past and future, probably some other stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-04-29 00:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paxavoo/pseuds/Paxavoo
Summary: Things are different after the Promise Day.





	1. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I hope you like this little fic of mine. I would love it if you read and reviewed, so I can improve as the story goes on. Basically, each chapter is going to be subtitled with a song that inspired the chapter. It's going to bounce back and forth between past and present, so feel free to send me requests for things you want to see in the fic, or a song you want a chapter to be based on. Happy reading!

###### The Reason Why - Rachel Yamagata

 

Easy isn’t the right word to describe those first months after the Promise Day. Simpler, maybe. Manageable. But not easy.

There is so much to do, so little time to think. When Miles does find himself alone with her, they’re both too tired to do anything but sleep, curled up in each other, trying to ignore the feeling that something—someone, is missing.

They’re scheduled to return to Briggs soon, taking the man formally known as Scar with them. But as the day of their departure draws closer, Olivier becomes more distant—closing herself off to him. He knows that Liv felt each loss personally—knows the names of every one of her fallen soldiers. Would always carry those names, those men, with her. It made sense for her to be wary about returning to Briggs. The fort’s halls would be considerably empty.

Neither of them have talked about Buccaneer. How his death will affect their dynamic, their relationship—working and otherwise. But Miles know his General, knows to give her time—that emotions, particularly big emotions, are hard for her to deal with. Perhaps naively, Miles simply imagines that they’ll talk when they get back to Briggs. When they can finally have some privacy.

Scar accompanies them north. Olivier avoids him on the train. The latter doesn’t surprise him; they maintain a strictly working relationship in front of the Briggs men.

They’ve been back at the fort a week before Miles realizes that she’s been working through the nights, falling asleep at her desk when her body forces her to take a break.

Although he’d initially been hurt when she didn’t invite him back to her room that first night, especially considering they hadn’t spent a night apart since the Promise Day. But he’d understood. It had only every been the three of them—keeping this distance, burring herself in work, was a way to forget that they were now only two. She could pretend that things were simply too busy for the three of them to be able to spend the night together.

He brings her coffee one night. The terrible Briggs coffee laced with something stronger. She’s not in her office or her quarters. Instead, he finds her in Buccaneers room, sitting on his bunk. The room is still filled with his things, still smells like him.

Olivier looks up at him, blue eyes raw, face made even paler by the dark purple rings under her eyes, and the lingering bruises from the battle with Sloth; looks up at him and just breaks. He’s never seen her cry like this—is fairly certain that no one has ever seen her cry like this, if she even has before. Miles feels like he’s been punched in the gut—the combination of Olivier’s pain and his own, standing in the empty room, knowing that Buccaneer will never return to it. His absence makes it look bigger, and Miles wonders if, when Buccaneer left it, if he had any kind of hunch that he was never coming back.

She’s sleep deprived and hurting in more ways than he can count. So, he holds her, until she can’t cry anymore. For the longest time, neither of them talk, content with simply being close, drinking.

Much to his surprise, Olivier is the first to speak. Her broken whisper is almost more than he can stand.

“I want to go home, Miles.” He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. Just holds her tighter as fresh tears fall, slow and silent.

“It’s easier during the day.” Her voice is raw. “It just feels like he’s out on a mission, or, I don’t know, scarring the new cubs. That the whole day goes by and I’ve just missed him because he just went to the mess, or he just turned around the corner.” She pauses, long enough that Miles thinks she’s fallen asleep. “But when I get back to our room, he’s going to be right there, just like always. He was always right there, right next to me.”

She’s gone when he wakes up, took her mug with her, leaving no trace that she was ever there.

In the weeks that follow, she’s not outright cold to him, but that’s about the extent of it. She treats him like any other soldier—trusts him to do his duties, whatever they may be, to continue to keep everything running smoothly.

And he does. He works his shifts, speculates about the growing unrest in Drachma and what it might mean for the Fort. Makes plans for the restauration of Ishval with Scar.

Time passes. He gives her space, hoping she’ll come back to him when she’s ready. All the while making plans for her to travel to Ishval with him.

But she doesn’t come to him, instead growing more cold and unreadable. Withdrawn from him and everyone else. The soldiers who had been at the wall long enough notice the change in her as well. She’s detached from herself; doing her job and nothing more.

The distance between them wasn’t entirely her fault, Miles was willing to admit. He doesn’t seek her out like he used; doesn’t want to walk the familiar hallways that lead to her rooms, expecting the old Liv and finding the husk that was left of her.

But he still tried. Miles made it obvious that he still loved her, still wanted her. Was more than willing to try and make things work when she was ready. That he was always there if she needed him. He knew that distancing himself from her would be like punishing her for her emotions—emotions that he knew she didn’t know how to deal with nonetheless. It would have been easier if she was at least trying. But she acts like none of it mattered to her. Like she had simply cut off a piece of herself that was no longer useful and was moving on in its absence.

He’s grown tired. Tired of being left to grieve on his own. Not just for Buccaneer, but for Olivier too. Even though she’s not gone in the same way he is, the Olivier he loved certainly doesn’t seem to exist anymore. He’s angry at her, something he’ll only admit to himself in the small hours of the morning, alone in his room. He’s angry that she’s given him another person to grieve. She may have lost Buccaneer, but Miles lost them both.

He spends a year in Ishval. Still technically under her command, just loaned out for the time being. He fools himself into believing that the distance will help. He follows the goings on at the wall in the newspapers, and through updates from Mustang and other soldiers who pass through.

Drachma is growing increasingly reckless. Under the rule of a new tyrant who seems desperate to take the wall, no matter the cost. It’s a messy year up nothing, Fort Briggs featuring in the papers more than he’s ever seen.

Occasionally, if the article is newsworthy enough, it’ll be accompanied by a picture. The first one he sees is one of Olivier, blood stained and furious. Sword drawn, looking like he’s threatening the photographer. It’s the first time he’s seen her in nearly six months, and she looks terrible—thin and exhausted—but it’s enough to make him smile. Not all the pictures feature General Armstrong, but he keeps them anyway.  
He returns to the wall periodically in the latter months of his time in Ishval. Even though the arrangement is strenuous and impractical, there is still a part of him that hopes that one day she will come back with him. Come back to him.

But it becomes painfully obvious that this won’t be happening. That the Olivier he loved died with Buccaneer.

He doesn’t want to leave her. But he can’t do this anymore.

“I’m resigning from my post at Fort Briggs. Effective immediately.” He stands in front of her desk, back straight, arms hands clasped behind his back.

“Excuse me?” She stands suddenly, one hand automatically going to the hilt of her sword. “You’re what?!”

He’s nervous, for a moment, that this might be her breaking point. But he doesn’t show it. Just repeats the words he’d rehearsed over and over in his head for the past month. “I’ll be stationed in Ishval full time. I can’t keep coming back here, and I’m needed there more than I am here.” His subtext is obvious to them both; he can’t keep coming back to her anymore. He needs to be there—without her—more than he needs to be here. With her.

She lowers her eyes. He’s hurt her.

“Fine then.” She’s furious now; sits back down at her desk, returns to the paperwork that she was doing when he came in. But he can see her hand shaking. “Go then.”

He knows what he’s doing. Knows that she’ll feel his absence just as much as she feels Buccaneers. Feels like he should say something to make it hurt less. But there’s nothing left to say. Still, he pauses in her doorway, looks back at her. The words form of their own accord.

“I loved him, too, Olivier.”


	2. Before (1913)

###### Riptide - Vance Joy

 

Captain Buccaneer had been looking forward to this day all week. The past six months had been hell: Drachma unrelenting, having acquired a new weapon—half machine, half alchemy based. It had been touch and go for a while, but they’d come out on top. Their Ice Queen wouldn’t have it any other way.

But even after the worst of the fighting had passed, there was still too many things to do. But this night had been on the books for months. Olivier would be back from Central, all the paperwork that needed doing was done. The wall was quiet for now. And the three of them could finally be alone.

It had just been him and Miles for the last few weeks while she was in Central, dealing with what she called “unnecessary bureaucratic bullshit.” And while he loved Miles just as much as he loved Olivier, they were three parts of a whole and it wasn’t the same with one of them missing.

Being her adjutant, Miles was waiting for her at the gate. Buccaneer was at his side, having trouble keeping the grin off his face. He’d just come from her room—their room, although no one outside the three of them knew that—having lit the fire, put some tea on, and spread that fur blanket of his that she was particularly fond of out on the bed.

She’d “borrowed” the blanket from his room around five years ago during a particularly bad bout of insomnia. The two of them hadn’t been together yet, although their relationship was definitely something more than simply friends. Miles had just been assigned to Briggs earlier that year, and while Olivier had blatantly ignored order 3066, Miles had still been a bit wary of the Briggs crew, not too sure what to make of them.

She’d shown up in his room at two in the morning. Something, he’d not been sure what at the time, had woken him up, and he’d opened his eyes to see her standing over him—scared the hell out of him, too. Worried—only half irrationally—that he’d messed up big time and she’d come to kill him in his sleep.

She’d been silent for a moment and then, “I can’t sleep.” Her voice was as level and stern as always.

He blamed his next actions on a mixture of fear and grogginess. Still half asleep, he scooched over until his back was against the wall and held up the blanket, an invitation.

She’d hesitated. Only for a second, but long enough for Buccaneer’s fear for his life to be renewed. But she slid in next to him, seemingly trying to touch him as little as possible as she lay down, with a muffled “if you tell anyone about this…”

Buccaneer had scoffed at her threat. She knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t breathe a word. He knew she wouldn’t be here if she thought that he might.

His silent laughter shook the bed as she lay down next to him, body awkwardly rigid. He’d never know Olivier Armstrong to be self-conscious about anything. Realizing that he was laughing, she up with an angry “tch.”

“Olivier.” Her slender wrist caught in his large hand before she could leave. “Wait. Please.” She didn’t say anything, but at least she stopped trying to leave. “I’m sorry. C’mere.” He gave her arm a gentle tug, surprised when she came back willingly.

“I don’t…” She trailed off, too many ways she could finish that sentence.

Buccaneer smiled, folding her into his arms. “I know.” He was as free with his emotions as she was guarded. He pulled the pile of blankets up around them. “Just relax.”

She was gone when he woke up, and neither of them mentioned it, but she was back the next night, waiting until she knew he would be in bed but not yet asleep. Wordlessly curling up against him.

She did this every night for six days, until he’d had to go on an overnight surveillance mission with a couple of the new cubs, showing them the ropes without having to put them in the field. He’d worried about her being alone, wondered if she’d sleep in his bed without him. If she’d sleep at all. The blanket had been gone when he’d returned. She’d never come back, but neither had the blanket. The first time they’d slept in her room, years later, he had seen it on her bed and burst out laughing.

Now, getting out of the car, she gave him a nod and a brisk “Captain” and walked past them through the gate, followed by Curtis, the soldier who had accompanied her to Central. Miles at her side, filling her in on the happenings of the Fort while she’d been gone.

He’d gone too, after a moment, catching up with them easily, following them through the maze of corridors that was their Fort, staying a few paces behind them. He loved watching her walk. Miles, knowing all too well what he was doing, threw a smirk back at him. Liv noticed too, and shot him a look that would have sent most soldiers running. But not him. He just laughed, thinking of all the things the three of them would be doing later—glaring not among them. He and Miles had something special planned for her tonight.

The three of them entered the elevator, the Curtis staying behind—Buccaneers size taking up too much room for the soldier to fit comfortably. As soon as the doors closed, she was facing him, stretching up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss, her hands trailing suggestively lower. Did the same to Miles before they reached their floor, where the two of them got off. She turned over her shoulder and gave him a rare smile, reserved only for him and Miles.

Buccaneer held the elevator door open and watched the two of them walk away, Miles on her right side. It would take about half an hour for them to debrief, maybe longer if Miles was as distracted as he was. He laughed again and let the door close, not bothering to hide his grin this time.

Another man might have been jealous of the extra time Miles got with her, even if she was strictly business. But he didn’t mind. He was her left-hand man, and he would see the two of them soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! As promised, here is a nice happy chapter. :) I hope you like it. Because of the present day/flashback format of this fic, I'm super open to promps, suggestions, wishes etc. So if there's anything you guys want to see happen let me know and I'll do my best to make it happen.


	3. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter already? Woah!

###### Televangelist - Julien Baker

She’s empty inside. A husk. The days after blur into one, marked by death certificates, informing families, and the notable absence of her left-hand man. She waits too long before getting her injuries checked. Puts everyone else’s needs before her own. The doc at the Fort has to re-break her arm, and more scars are etched into the roadmap that is her body. She knows she deserves the pain. Feels the need to punish herself for living. For not being out there, fighting by his side.

A General’s place is with her soldiers. She’d always staunchly believed that. But when it came down to it, she wasn’t there. Late one night she confesses this to Miles, in the hollow safety of his arms. He reminds her that she was fighting with them. That she couldn’t be everywhere at once. Buccaneer knew that—died smiling, died a death any of her men would have been proud to die. She knows it’s true, but deep down doesn’t believe him.

This is why she thinks equivalent exchange is bullshit. They took Buccaneer, but they didn’t give anything back. If anything, they took more—her ability to laugh, smile, go anywhere in the Fort without seeing him. Her heart. Probably the rest of her organs too: it doesn’t feel like there’s anything left in her. Took her ability to get up in the morning without having to remind herself that, just because his life ended, doesn’t mean that hers did too.

Except that it has.

Olivier never liked not knowing things, but now she feels like there’s more things she doesn’t know than things she does. Simple things, like how to make coffee, or smile. And bigger things, like how to sleep in a word that he isn’t in anymore.

So, she simply doesn’t. Miles makes her coffee, or she waits until one of the other soldiers makes a pot. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t sleep. She just doesn’t.

She’d spent most of her life alone, and never minded it. Never realizing that she was lonely until the day she suddenly wasn’t. And now she doesn’t know how to go back.

The worst part is, she’s not alone. Miles is there. Always there. Never too close, but never too far away. Waiting for her to process things her way. Except that she can’t. Her mind can’t process this. And she can’t seem to find a way to convey that to him.

It’s not fair what she’s doing to him. But some part of her has always believed herself to be damaged goods. Emotionally stunted. Only able to push people away. So that’s what she does. Even though it kills her. She doesn’t want to hurt him—it’s herself she wants to hurt.

But she has detached from herself. It seems to be her default setting—it’s what she did whenever her mother went on one of her tirades about how she wasn’t a good enough daughter, or when her father beat her down for not being a son. It’s all she knows how to do.

Olivier doesn’t want this particular life anymore. It’s not a new feeling, but it’s one she hasn’t had in a while.

And time passes. It always does. Miles and Scar are in Ishval. Drachma is attacking. She’s on the battlefield, unusually reckless with her life, but not anyone else’s. She takes all the risks herself. Knows she was trained for a different kind of war than her soldiers. But not trained for the war she’s fighting in her head.

When Miles tells her he won’t be coming back from Ishval, she learns that there was something left in her to hurt after all. He closes the door behind him, his quiet words still echoing.

_I loved him, too, Olivier._

_I loved him, too._

_Olivier._

_I loved him._

_Him._

She loved him. _Loves_ him. Both of them. More than she had ever believed herself capable of.

And now Buccaneer is dead. And as for Miles… Well, she only had herself to blame for that.

She hurls her mug at the wall. Then the container of pens on her desk. The lamp. Paperwork. Her chair. Her fists. Over and over her fists. The scream building in the pit of her stomach gets caught in her throat and she can’t breathe. Doesn’t even know if she wants to breathe anymore.

Come morning, her hands are bleeding, and there’s a hole in the wall almost as big as the one in her heart. She doesn’t know how she’ll explain this one, decides to turn the room into a supply closet and relocate.

Her back hurts from spending the night on the floor, in the wreckage of her office, but she can’t move. Feels pinned to the ground like one of the dead butterflies in the glass boxes in her father’s office.

And suddenly she’s seven years old again. Already knowing what it must feel like to be those butterflies, tapped in there simply because they had the gall to exist. Seven years old and already alone, burdened with the weight of her parent’s disappointment in who she is as a person, in things she has no control over. Already knowing that there’s nothing she could ever do to be good enough. Knows better than to try: they’re not worth the sacrifice of pretending to be someone she’s not.

And so she does what she’s always done. Peals herself off the floor, returns to her room. Puts on her mask and washes the blood from her hands. Lets herself freeze and become numb. When she leaves her room, not a minute later than she would on a normal morning, she’s encased herself in enough ice to hold her together. She can’t allow herself anymore moments of weakness. At least now she has nothing left to lose. Her chest has been dug out like a strip mine. There’s nothing left but a cold empty.

She channels her anger into her work. Making it through one day at a time. Sometimes hour at a time if things get bad enough. She feels their absence more than she feels anything else. Like a phantom limb. But there’s no automail that can replace a loss like this.

To anyone else, she’s her usual snarky, cold self. Trains the new cubs Central sends her. Oversees new engineering projects. Yells at the idiots from Central who try to tell her how to run her Fort. Throws herself into battle with a vengeance. She’s sleeping in the infirmary more than her own bed, which is just fine with her. While her ability to make coffee has come back to her, she still can’t walk into their— _her_ quarters without expecting one of them to be there. She’s gotten very good at getting dressed in the dark.

They’re making good progress in the battle against the unrelenting Drachmans. Olivier finds herself in the news more often than she’d like, and can’t help but wonder if Miles has seen the articles. If he’s worried.

She spends the night marking the 365th day since Miles left on the roof of the fort. Kept company only by coffee laced with brandy and a coat that Buccaneer left behind. She buries her face in the fur collar and inhales, even though it stopped smelling like him long ago. She can still pretend that it does.

She gazes out at the mountains, black and white and simple as always. Lays back against the cold metal and stares up at the sky, letting the last shred of warmth be leached from her body. It’s the only thing she has left to give.

No matter how much she looks up, there’s no blue anymore.


	4. Before (1893)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit of a hard week, so here's a bit of a hard chapter.

###### Heaven Knows - The Pretty Reckless

It was not the first time Olivier had been locked in her room that day. Although, if she was being technical about it, it wasn’t the second either, considering that she hadn’t been let out after the first time, but rather climbed out the window and down a tree. Had gotten caught scaling the wall that fenced in the garden.

Well. Since she was being technical, she got caught falling off the wall that fenced in the garden. Had broken a finger in the process, too. And her back wasn’t at all happy with her; she was going to be black and blue tomorrow. And probably not just from the fall, Olivier thought to herself, bitterly.

She hated herself for flinching every time she heard footsteps outside her door. Was half convinced that her father was walking by on purpose, just to keep her on edge. She hated her life, hated her parents. Hated herself for still loving them despite everything.

It was another fight with her mother that had gotten her locked in there in the first place. She had never been satisfied with Olivier—disappointed in her daughter’s scorn of tea parties and marriage and everything else that went with being socialite; everything her mother thought a girl should be. She’d been furious when Olivier had taken fencing instead of dance, showed an aptitude for strategy and engineering rather than courtship and party planning—or whatever else it was that “young ladies of good breeding” were expected to be good at. She’d refused to wear dresses from the moment she was old enough to dress herself, and had scared her piano teacher so much that he refused to return.

Their latest unremitting battle over Olivier’s blatant dismissal of her mother’s values and refusal to have any part in courting or finding a suitable husband for when she was of age. She was, and forever would be, Bernadine Armstrong’s greatest disappointment.

Olivier was surprised when it was her mother who entered the room, rather than her father, already mid lecture, expression pinched.

“I don’t know what you were thinking!” Her mother’s already nasally voice got squawky when she was angry. Olivier, had always thought she sounded ridiculous, and paid her no attention, focused instead on splinting her finger.

“Olivier, you’ll be fifteen in a few weeks. You need to start seriously thinking about your future. For heaven sakes, when I was your age I was already promised to your father! And this time next year you’ll be getting ready to make your debut into society—”

“Not if I can help it.” Olivier met her gaze, expression icy.

Her mother continued on as if she hadn’t spoken. “In fact, several of the other noble families have already expressed their interest in arraigning you with their sons. Do you know what that means? For them to be approaching us even though you’re still so young? You have so many opportunities open to you, and you’re throwing them away, acting like some kind of ruffian street girl.”

“Did you ever consider that I don’t want these opportunities?” Olivier shot back.

Her mother scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know what you want.”

“No, YOU don’t know what I want.” They’d had different variations of this exact conversation thousands of times in months leading up to her fifteenth birthday. She was sick to death of saying the same thing over and over and her mother still not listening.

“Olivier Mira Ar—”

“Shut up! Just shut up. Stop trying to make me into a different person. I’m never going to be the way you want, to just stop fucking trying!”

Olivier was ashamed that she didn’t see the slap coming—she was usually better at anticipating these things. Having missed the chance to dodge or brace for it, the backhand knocked her sideways. Her mother may have been thin, but she was an Armstrong and, like Olivier, a lot stronger than she looked.

She was on her feet again in an instant, eyes blazing, braced to dodge another blow. But it didn’t come. Instead, her mother looked down at her with a look of pure disgust, “I’m glad your sisters didn’t turn out like you. It means that I’m not a bad parent: you’re just incorrigible.”

“Better than being a stuck-up bitch who can’t think for herself.”

This time, she saw the strike coming and caught her mother’s wrist. Blue eyes met blue eyes and she hardened her grip. “I dare you.” Olivier’s voice was like ice.

The older woman yanked her hand free, and with a glare that Olivier would use herself decades later said, “you are to stay in here until I tell you otherwise.”

Years of being locked in her room for non-aforementioned periods of time—sometimes spanning days—prompted Olivier to ask, “what about meals?”

“I’ll be in charge of your meals.” Her mother’s smirk turned cruel as she turned to lock the door, key in hand. “You’re getting too big anyway. Men like delicate, slender girls, not big muscular ones.”

Her mother gone, Olivier couldn’t help glancing in the mirror, visible in the doorway of her bathroom. She wasn’t that big, was she? She wasn’t a stick bug like her mother, but she was tiny compared to her siblings. She was strong. Athletic, she decided. Muscular, but lean.

No. With a glare, Olivier pulled the door shut, a little harder than necessary. She was impervious to her mother’s snide remarks. Had spent years building a wall of ice to ward off her mother’s fire.

Her mother had been smart enough to lock the window this time, so there was no escaping unless she wanted to break it. She considered it for a moment, before deciding that the sound would probably draw too much attention to her.

Instead, she unsheathed her grandfather’s sword and sat on the floor to polish it—the only calming thing she could do in the confines of her room. He had left the sword to her in his will, her having always been his favorite grandchild. She’d gone to live with him when she was nine after her mother decided that it was the city that was responsible for her daughter’s unruliness.

The three years she’d spent with him had been the best of her life. She’d attended a proper school that didn’t frown upon girls learning math and sciences, got to ride her grandfather’s horses and practice her swordsmanship whenever she liked. Was on the school fencing team. She even had a dog.

She’d had friends there, too. Real friends that she’d chosen for herself, not the daughters of her mother’s associates, giggling clones who all seemed to have been assigned the same personality.

When her grandfather had died a few months after her twelfth birthday, she’d been forced to move back in with her parent’s. Her mother, having not seen Olivier since she left, was furious that her daughter had returned wilder than when she left. She’d spent a lot of time in her room since then. A lot of time alone. She preferred it that way: people always ended up being disappointing halfwits who couldn’t think for themselves.

After two days of solitude and salad, she awoke to the sound of a key turning in the lock. The watch on her nightstand showed it to be just after 2am. She grabbed her sword from under her pillow and unsheathed it, tensed and ready.

“Ollie?”

Olivier relaxed at the sound of her little brother’s voice, put the sword away. “Alex? What are you doing?”

Alex didn’t answer her, instead gestured behind him into the dark hallway. A few seconds later, he crept into her room, followed by Amue and Strongine.

“Sis!” Alex proclaimed in a loud whisper. “We brought supplies!”

Olivier climbed out of bed with a grin, and pulled her brother into a hug. At eleven, he was already taller than her. She was grateful to him in more ways than one—their mother had her and her sisters in as quick a succession as biology would allow, stopping only when they had a son. When they had Alex. Olivier had nearly been four when he was born, but already a source of disappointment for her parents. Her father had wanted a son as his first born, and while her mother had been fine with a daughter, she had wanted her to be a prim and proper young lady, neither of which Olivier had ever been.

She’d too young to worry for her sisters before Alex had been born. But in time she’d realized how lucky they were; Alex had arrived before her sisters were old enough to suffer from their father’s frustration at being denied a male heir.

And they grew up to be the type of girls that their mother had tried to turn Olivier into. But while they were everything their mother had wanted in her daughters, they were still their own people. We’re as stubborn and strong willed as she was, the only difference being that what they wanted from life aligned with what their mother wanted from them.

Amue was explaining how she’d stolen the key to Olivier’s room from their mother’s nightstand while the other two had kept their parents occupied. Strongine emptied the bag they had brought onto Olivier’s bed. It contained some bread rolls, cookies, and other non-vegetable-based food, books, one of Olivier’s sketchpads which she hadn’t seen in months.

For the first time in years, Olivier felt the urge to cry. She made life so much harder on her siblings. They worried about her, risked getting in trouble themselves to bring her provisions. She knew that Strongine especially, only twelve and particularly delicate, suffered from the stress of her mother and older sister’s never ending screaming matches—had taken to retreating into the garden whenever Olivier and their mother where in the same room together.

Olivier took a deep breath, jaw set, eyes determined. This wasn’t okay, not for her siblings and not for her. None of them should have to live like this, and her siblings shouldn’t have to suffer from her own stubbornness. Things would only get worse in the upcoming year, when her parents would start inviting potential suitors over to meet her.

Looking around at her siblings, who were still telling the tale of their bravery and showing her all the things they’d brought, something broke inside her.

She didn’t want to live this particular life anymore, and standing in her room at 2 in the morning, surrounded by the only three people she was certain she loved, Olivier decided that she wasn’t going to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, hoped you liked it. I know it was a bit longer than usual (that's what I get for writing when I should be studying!). Anyway, let me know what you think, and if you have any ideas/prompts/songs you want to see in this fic drop me a line and I'll do my best to make it happen. :)


	5. Before (1912)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for anyone who has ever been told that they're anything less than beautiful.

###### Wonderwall - Ryan Adams

It was rare that the three of them got to wake up together. It had taken a month of foreplaning, but they had finally arranged the roster in such a way that they all had an off day at the same time. 

Buccaneer had gotten off watch at 2am, and collapsed into bed with them shortly after. Olivier had taken her obligatory once-a-month day off, and he was scheduled for night duty tonight. He was going to be dog tired, having not gotten much sleep the night before, but it would be worth it. 

He had been the first to wake up, having always been an early riser. Buccaneer could sleep well into the afternoon, and Liv’s sleeping patterns were sporadic at best—she’d go three, four days with no sleep, and then crash for twelve hours. 

He was happy, sandwiched between the two people he loved most. The three of them were lying in what could be best described as a pile. Buccaneer, lying on his side facing them, arm acting as a pillow for the other two. Liv was sprawled out on her stomach, more on him than she was the bed. One of her arms dangling off the edge, the other draped across his chest. Her left leg was entangled with Buc’s. It amazed him that the smallest of the three of them could take up the most space. But Olivier slept the way she did all things, without constraint or apology. 

The usual mountain of blankets was tangled under and around them—the combination of the fire and their body heat making them mostly unnecessary. Miles could count on one hand the number of times he had been too hot since being posted to the Fort, but this was definitely one of them. 

Olivier stirred first, brought out of sleep by Miles’ fingers caressing her bare back, tracing the bear paw tattoo on her left shoulder blade. She moaned and rolled on to her back, very nearly falling off the edge of the bed that was not designed to be shared by three people—especially when one of those people was Buccaneer. 

“Hey.” Miles whispered when she sat up, just visible in the low light from the fire. 

“Morning.” She smiled, groping around for a blanket. Pulling one up around her when she freed one and curling up against his chest, pressing her lips to his shoulder. 

They stayed like that, happy and warm, until Buccaneer’s snores became less regular, before stopping altogether. 

“’Time s‘it?” He mumbled, pulling Miles and Olivier closer to him. 

“Time to get up.” Olivier supplied. Even on her days off she didn’t like to waste time doing nothing. 

When he didn’t respond, Olivier inched back into her previous position, practically on top of Miles, pressing her perpetually icy hands against the large man’s warm chest with an evil grin. 

Miles laughed as Buc flinched away from her touch, barely catching himself before he fell off the bed. 

“Uh oh.” Miles watched as Buccaneer’s eyes narrowed. “Now you’re in for it!” He laughed as Liv made a break for it, but Buccaneer was surprisingly quick and nimble for his size, and caught her before she could fully extract herself from the tangle of blankets and limbs. 

Miles slipped out of the bed as Buc pulled Liv back into it. It was colder outside of their little nest, but decisively safer—Miles had never been a fan of roughhousing like the other two were, preferring to watch from the sidelines, ready to intervene when they inevitably got too serious. 

Figuring he had enough time for a coffee run before his intervention was required, Miles padded down the hall to the mess, wanting to get back to their warm room as soon as possible. By the time he got back, Buc had Olivier pinned to the floor and was tickling her mercilessly. She was putting up a good fight—had managed to free one of her arms from his vice-like grip, although the other was still trapped above her head, and was attempting to off balance him enough for to escape out from under him. 

Miles watched for a moment, small smile on his face, wishing he had a camera so he could keep this moment for ever. 

“Okay, that’s enough.” He gave Buc a nudge as he passed them. 

Buc climbed off her with a good-natured grin, and offered a hand to help her up. Miles was pleasantly surprised when she took it, but the feeling quickly went away when she rolled back, feet on his hips, and used it to throw him over her. 

“Children.” Miles rolled his eyes and handed them both a mug. “You’re both children.” 

Buccaneer pulled Miles into a bear hug. “And you love us.” 

“You’re all sweaty.” Miles pushed him away half-heartedly. “Go shower.” 

“Only if you join me.” 

The Ishvalan raised an eyebrow. “If you insist.” 

“Fuck yes!” Buc headed off to the bathroom with a self-satisfied smirk. 

Miles was at the door when he realized the Olivier wasn’t following them. “Liv?” The light in the bedroom was too dim for him to make out her expression. “You coming?” 

Olivier nodded, realizing that she had no good reason not to—and Miles would see through any excuse she made anyway. 

Red eyes met blue ones, and in the light of the hallway he could finally see her face properly, although he couldn’t decipher the expression it wore. “You okay?” 

“Tch!” Olivier scoffed at him, quickening her pace with a roll of her eyes. 

Miles frowned, not entirely convinced, and followed after her. 

The bathroom was filled with steam when they got there, Buccaneer not having bothered to wait for them. Miles was quick to join him—hot water a limited luxury in the north—but Olivier hesitated. She made no move to get undressed, despite having been naked in their room earlier. But the light had been low then—then and every time they’d been together in that way. Turns out she hadn’t been as impervious to her mother’s running commentary of snide remarks as she had thought herself to be. 

Olivier frowned, angry at her brain for ruining this. She knew she had nothing to worry about, but the anxiety was still there. Old insecurities, that only ever bubbled to the surface around people whose opinion she actually gave a damn about. 

Miles stepped out from under the water, more steam rising off his body. She tensed, but didn’t resist as he lifted her shirt over her head, slid her pants down over her hips, letting them fall to the floor. 

She hadn’t realized that she was looking at the ground until Miles tilted her face up towards his. Took her hand, lead her into the shower. Buccaneer, uncharacteristically quiet, touched on Miles’ shoulder before wrapping his arms around Olivier, the top of her head barely even reaching his chin. 

“You’re so beautiful, Livvie.” He whispered into her hair. 

“You’re both a couple of saps.” Olivier rolled her eyes, but the remark lacked its usual irritation and teasing. 

Miles knew about her mother. Buc had told him about it in bed one night, Olivier having finally fallen into a restless sleep after a particularly loud phone call with her father. Olivier knew that he knew; it wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted him to know—there were no secrets between the three of them—but her telling him would require her talking about it, which she absolutely refused to do. 

Buccaneer had pieced the story together over the thirteen years he’d known her—gathering information from offhanded comments Olivier had made while sober and the bitter ones she’d sometimes mention after a drink too many. Had asked her brother a few things once their friendship had moved into something more. 

Miles had met her parents himself when accompanying her to Central for some Military-mandated reason he couldn’t recall. Had already known then that her childhood had not been a happy one. He’d figured out on his own: some of her quirks and odd couldn’t be explained by anything else. But meeting them was something else entirely, seeing the way they treated her, despite her success in the Military. They weren’t explicit in their disapproval, but there were enough subtle jibes and subtext that he didn’t want to think about what growing up with them would have been like. 

“We’re going to be a couple of cold saps if we don’t hurry up in here.” Miles laughed, flicking water at them. 

Olivier’s eyebrows shot up, her expression back to its usual playful annoyance. “Well stop standing around like a couple of trees, then!” 

She shrugged out of Buccaneer’s arms, flicking water at Miles as she passed him. 

Buc took his hand as they shared a glance, watching the water cascade down her body, taking a moment to appreciate the curve of her hips, the red and silver scars that decorated her skin, the way her muscles in her back and shoulders rippled as she washed her hair. 

Yes, she was beautiful, and she was theirs. And they would spend the rest of the morning showing her.


	6. After

###### Wintersong - Sarah McLachlan

The men who want to go home, and have homes to go to, have left, granted a weeks leave without question. She’s not among them; can’t deal with her family on top of everything else, no matter how much Alex insists they want her there. 

They're not the family she wants to be with, not the family she chose.

More simply, they're not Miles and Buc. 

The ache of their absence, the sense of loss, the missing them—none of it has gone away, or even lessened. She’s just learnt to live with it. Accepted these feelings as the way things are now and gotten on with her life. 

Buccaneer was always adamant about having a tree every year. He’d go out and chop one down himself, have some soldiers drag it back to the fort. Decorate it with stuff from town. But now that he’s not here to insist, there isn’t one. If the men still here want one, they haven’t said anything. 

They’re hit by a blizzard two days before Christmas, which is guaranteed to keep Drachma quiet until it’s passed. Olivier doesn’t know if she should be relieved or not. On one hand, the lack of conflict is a nice break. On the other, there’s nothing to distract her, and there’s too much time to think. 

Christmas Eve, the fort is quiet, save from the men who aren’t on watch drinking in the Mess. She turned down offers to join them, ignored odd looks from Henschel, and retired to her room. 

She’s wearing fleece pants, and one of Buccaneer’s sweaters—she has a closet full of them now. Miles took all of his own clothes with him. The fire is lit and, on the outside, she’s warm, but her insides feel frozen. She’s not an emotional person, but the deep ache in her chest is making it hard to breathe and she’s lonely. 

She hates that Bradley is dead, but only because she had wanted to kill him herself. To take away his life the way he took hers. To look him in the eyes as he died. 

In the back of her closet, is a small synthetic Christmas tree, barely a foot tall, with a cardboard star stuck crookedly to its top. 

Buccaneer had made it their first Christmas together as a trio, after they got into an argument about having a tree in their room. It had been a compromise suggested by Miles the Diplomat. She half-heartedly protested it too, but mostly just for show—if a little tree would make her boys happy, then they could have one. 

She unwraps it carefully and sets it on the mantel, next to the one photo of the three of them that she has, and climbs into bed. 

It’s late and morning’s in no hurry, and sleep won’t set her free. She lies awake and tries to recall how their bodies felt beside her. When the silence gets too hard to handle, and night too long, she put her uniform on over her clothes, and stuffs her feet into her boots before making her way out to the front of the fort, the side facing North City. 

She doesn’t pass anyone in the halls, and waves away the guard at the entrance. Tells him to join the others in the Mess, that she’ll take over the rest of his watch. He doesn’t question her order, and she sits down in the snow, rests her chin on the pommel of her saber. 

Their first Christmas together had been perfect. The morning had been crisp and clear, the border unusually quiet. Miles had the morning watch, posted at the gate on the city side of the fort. Buccaneer, who had the morning off, was messing with him—throwing snowballs and banter. 

She had yelled at them for messing around, cut Buccaneer’s snowman in half with her sword, but her heart wasn’t in it. It made her happy when they were happy. Buc and Miles had both turned on her anyway, though she dodged their snowballs with easy precision. 

Some of the other men working on ground level had joined in, too. Between the weather, Drachma, and the running of the Fort, her soldiers rarely had any time to let loose. So she let them carry on for a while, sneaking in a couple of well-aimed shots at Buc, herself. 

Olivier had ordered them back to work when it started snowing. Had followed them in herself, but paused in the doorway to look back. Buccaneer had taken his hair down, and was shaking snow out it, showering Miles in melting slush in the process. 

They were the only two in the yard, and they were acting like teenagers. Miles didn’t have his glasses on, and instead was wearing a smile she rarely saw outside their room. He managed to knock Buc over, but the larger man had taken him down with him. They lay in the snow, laughing, and Miles leaned over and pressed a kiss to Bucs lips. 

It's one of her favorite memories. 

Olivier doesn’t notice she’s crying until the tears start to freeze on her face. She wipes them away as quickly as they appeared. She feels strange, like she’s caught halfway between something. She can almost see Buc’s bear-like silhouette emerging from the storm, his arm draped carelessly around Miles’ shoulders. 

She squeezes her eyes closed, tucks the memory away in the cavern of her chest. When she opens them again, the image of them is gone and she’s alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sad little chapter from a sad little writer.


	7. Before (1912)

###### This Woman's Work - Greg Laswell

Their intel had been wrong. One of their spies discovered, either killed or coerced, or betrayed them. Olivier wasn’t sure which—he'd been a goon from Central, not one of their own. In the end, it hadn’t mattered, and they had lost much more than a plant. They’d gotten word that Drachma was planning something big, and thus had responded in kind. But the Drachman forces weren’t where they were supposed to be, and the resulting ambush had been devastating. 

He felt trapped, unwillingly having remained at the fort. Watched from the top of the wall, sick to his stomach, but unable to turn away. He had tried to go in her place, insisted even, but Olivier wouldn’t hear of it. He was her adjutant, and had to oversee things in her absence. This time, his duty was at the fort, hers was out there, she had said. She would be fine, she told him, and if she wasn’t then she wasn’t fit for survival in the North. Her parting words hadn’t exactly been comforting, but Olivier refused to coddle anyone. 

Eyes squinting against binoculars, Miles had caught sight of her amidst the battle, moving fast when everything else looked to him to be in slow motion. A blur of red and white, hair the color of a volcano at sunset—a stark contrast to the white expanse around them. The occasional gleam as her saber caught the light. Her camouflage was made less effective by the bloodstains, but in all truth, she didn’t need it. Their General, the Northern Wall of Briggs, the Ice Queen. She was an army unto herself. 

The men were doing well, considering the circumstances. She had trained each of them personally, and years of practice made their movements, descendants of her own, second nature. Trusting in each other and their General, acting as one force. A hydra—when one was cut down, another would quickly take his place. Divided into units, panning out in the formation she had taught them for situations like these, matching the Drachmans death for death. He hadn’t been there to witness the Ishvalan extermination, but what he had just seen aligned almost too perfectly with his imaginings. Although he knew that blood didn’t stain sand the way it stained snow. 

The dregs of the soldiers they had sent out returned, thinned by almost half, the wounded a dime a dozen among the survivors. They had won—their General had trained them well—but at a great cost. There was something to be said for the element of surprise. 

Miles scanned the remnants of the ground team. Red eyes finding Buccaneer easily, took a quick inventory. Satisfied with the results, sought out Olivier. Smaller than the men surrounding her, and scarily good at not being seen when she didn’t want to, she was harder to find in the commotion. Couldn’t find her until he was practically on top of her. 

She still had her snow-blindness goggles on, but her face guard hung around her neck. Her armor was no longer white, and her hair no longer blonde—evidently, she lost her helmet at some point. She hadn’t looked this messy from his view atop the wall. Was covered in more blood than he had ever seen on one person, but that particular detail didn’t seem to register with her as important. Her face was clean, save for a strip of red across her nose and cheeks, marking the skin that her guard and goggles couldn’t quite cover. 

There was frost nip on her forehead. For some reason that detail stood out to Miles more than any other, sparked an ache in his chest. 

Liv’s eyes were dead behind her snow goggles, her expression blank as she had her men relay status updates, compiling the information in her head for the report she would need to write later. Miles knew that look, knew what it meant. 

She wasn’t his Liv at the moment—had become someone else, someone she had been sculpted into by rough hands and brutal training, someone she hated. She was cold, unfeeling, uncaring. Disconnected. It took time for her to come back to herself—less time now that she didn’t have to knit herself back together on her own, but time nonetheless. Time that she wouldn’t have until later, after everyone else was taken care of first. 

She seldom talked about her earlier years in the military, but he knew enough to know that they had been unorthodox—that Central command had intended something different for her when she enlisted, had trained her to fulfill a specific purpose. Female soldiers were few and far between at that time, especially ones that looked like her. Someone had decided to bank on that. 

He knew she had an unusual skill set—one that she hated to use unless absolutely necessary, simply because of what it, what she, had been intended for. But had taught her soldiers everything she knew, to move without being seen, to kill without drawing attention to themselves, to seemingly appear out of thin air. 

She had so much to do on days like these. Reports that needed to be written while the details were still fresh in her mind. Oversee the securing of the fort against the storm. Families of the dead to inform, injured to check up on in the infirmary. No doubt she had her own injuries that needed to be looked at, too. He knew she would put herself last on her list of priorities. 

But she met his eyes briefly, over the shoulder of the soldier she was talking to. The slightest dip of her chin, letting him know that she was okay. 

Buccaneer, at his side now, grazed his hand with his own—the only contact they could afford with so many people around. 

“She knew something wasn’t right.” Buc shook his head. His braid had fallen out, his hair loose around his shoulders. “Knew before we even got to where they were supposed to be.” With a sigh he added, “Could’a been a lot worse.” 

It was well after midnight when she made it to their room. She hadn’t had the time to properly clean up. Had wiped most of the blood off her face, pulled her stained hair back into a knot at the back of her head. Replaced her white jacket with a blue one, but still wore the pants she had on during the battle. They were stiff were the blood had dried, stuck to her skin in the places where it hadn’t. Admittedly not as bad at the jacket had been, but still. 

Miles’ brow furrowed at the sight of her. Buccaneer hadn’t looked much better when he had come up a couple hours ago, but at least he had changed his clothes. Liv could be negligent with her own health and safety—and at times hygiene—but this was something else. 

She closed the door behind her, a small sigh escaping her lips. Wore a forlorn expression when she turned to face them, kicked her boots off. 

Buc, having been closer to the door, reached her first. Scooped her up into his arms, ignoring her half-assed protests, hugged her tight. Miles was already in the bathroom when the two of them came in, already had the shower running. He set her down, fully clothed, under the running water, before ditching his own clothes and following in after her. Miles followed in suit, glad as he always was for the odd shape of this particular bathroom, how it made the shower bigger than usual. 

He knew how tired she was when she didn’t even protest them peeling off her bloodstained clothes, washing her hair, the water at their feet stained red. 

Miles looked her up and down, cataloging injuries. Plenty of bruises, and a nasty looking gash on her waist, but nothing too major. Nothing that couldn’t wait until morning. 

The shower had Olivier functioning again, the combination of the water and Miles’ strong hands loosening the knots in her muscles. She leaned into him as he wrapped her in a towel and buried his face in her damp hair. 

Her arms were almost too tired to blow dry her hair. The two of them would have done it for her—had offered, several times—but she waved them off, sent them back to the bedroom with a roll of her eyes when they kept getting in the way. 

Later, curled up in bed in their usual huddle, Miles pulled the two of them as close to him as he could without crushing Liv in her spot in the middle. He was the only one of them still awake, not that he wasn’t tired. He just wanted to watch them sleep for a little bit, feel them in his arms, thank Ishvala that they both made it back to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to send me prompts or requests for chapters, or even just little things you want to see. Your wish is my command. :)


	8. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little longer than usual. Let me know what you think!

###### Ballad of Big Nothing - Julien Baker

The weather is doing that weird thing where it’s half raining half snowing, but she doesn’t care. Her brother is meant to be arriving soon, and the polite thing would be go down and greet him. But Olivier has never cared about being polite, and isn’t going to start now—especially when it’s just Alex. One of her men will bring him up. And if he has a problem with the weather he can either go inside or suck it up. 

From her vantage point at the top of her wall, feet hanging over the edge, she can just make out the shadows her men make in the snow, the only trace that they’re out there. She wouldn’t be able to see them at all if she didn’t know what to look for. 

She is confident in their abilities—had trained each of them personally, and hand-picked them for the mission. But damn it if she couldn’t be out there with them. Nonetheless, she isn’t fit for combat yet—had taken one too many risks the last time. 

She wonders, bitter, how many of them will return. She’s confident in them, yes, but not in the Drachmans or the unforgivable landscape of the north, always a wildcard. 

That, and the fact that death seems to follow her around like a lost puppy. 

Over the years, her mental list of all the men she’s lost has almost grown too long for her to remember, but she makes an effort, recites their names in her head when she’s doing her rounds in the morning because she owes it to them, for being here when they can’t. Another morning when she woke up and they didn’t. She wonders who will remember them when she’s not around to anymore. 

She glances down at the snow below. She could jump, slip off the edge, and no one would notice. They wouldn’t find her body until the following spring. She would simply be gone. 

She doesn’t want to, but the ease in which someone can disappear, through death or other means, beguiles her. 

By the time Alex is brought up to the roof, she can no longer see the shadows of her men, and the rain-snow has stopped, but not before having succeeded in plastering her hair to her face. 

“Sis!” Alex is as loud as ever, and she responds with a glare. 

“It’s General when we’re in uniform.” 

He laughs, though wisely stays back from the edge. 

“What are you going to waste my time about now?” She usually finds it funny, seeing her brother up north, bundled up in thick layers and coats, offering him no opportunity to tear his shirt off. But now his bulk just reminds her of Buccaneer. 

“Since when do I need a reason to visit to visit my dear sister?” Honestly, it’s a miracle his voice doesn’t echo off the mountains. 

“Since always.” Her voice is harsher than usual. “If you don’t have one, then I suggest get the fuck out of my fort, you sniveling idiot.” 

The worst part about Alex having grown up with her is that he knows her. She had been his favorite sister, had taught him how to throw a punch and pick a lock. Was the hardest for her to leave behind when she left home at 16, knowing she wasn’t planning on coming back. She may terrify him, but he can see right through her—seems to know what she’s thinking. So the concern on his face makes her wonder what she looks like to him. She had thought she’d done a pretty good job of gluing herself back together, at least on the outside. 

“I have news from Ishval, actually.” 

“Oh?” She prompted, her voice thick with disinterest. 

“The restoration is going well. A small group from Central Command have been invited to see the progress.” 

“Good.” She ignored his unspoken question. 

“Central also informs me that you have yet to appoint a new adjutant.” 

“And why would they tell you something like that?” 

“Are they wrong?” Alex counters. 

“Yes.” Olivier snaps, even though they’re not. She stands, turns towards her brother, hands resting on the pommel of her saber. “Is that all?” 

“Central has sent another list of candidates for you to consider. You never responded to their last letter, so they wanted to make sure this one got to you.” 

Olivier tears up the envelope as soon as he hands it to her, lets the pieces scatter in the wind. She sits back down. 

“Are you alright?” 

Alex’s question startles her a little, but she doesn’t show it, replies only with a curt “yes.” 

She’s not paying much attention as Alex tells her that he’ll be staying for a few days and heads back inside. Rather, she’s thinking about how her father used to take her and her siblings to the military museums on Sundays, and how there was always so much red. The paintings, showing bloody battles, Amestrian soldiers riding on horseback over the bodies of their fallen enemies. The real-life swords and armor from these battles sat worn and unpolished, in glass cases, and if she looked closely, she swore she could see leftover spots of blood on them. 

She wasn’t there when the people who wore that armor, used those swords, died. She wasn’t there when Buccaneer died. If any of the men on today’s mission die in the field, she won’t be there for them, either. Probably won’t be there when Miles dies, either. 

The though makes her chest hurt so she pushes it away. Replacing it is the question of who—if anyone—will be there when she dies. She expects she’ll die in battle. Or at least hopes she will. That’d be much better than wasting away, and dying old and alone in her bed one night. No, she’d rather die with her men at her side, sword in hand. 

She doesn’t find that death unsettling, the one that comes swift and bloody. She’d been raised on the idea that, the moment a soldier dons his uniform, he accepts that he might be buried in it. It was dying old and sick that scared her. 

That was the way her grandfather had gone. And she’d watched, over the course of a year as the large, formidable man she knew shrank into a pile of bones in a skin bag, stuck together with metal pins and too-tight stitching. 

Later, when she’s doing her night rounds, she remembers that Catherine nearly died like that, too. Had gotten sick five years after Olivier had left, shortly before the shit hit the fan and she was exiled to Briggs. It had been the first time she’d been back, the first time she’d seen her family, since she joined the military. The first time she had met Cathy, actually. Her sister been tiny and frail; grey skinned, bedridden. She’d been skinny and angry, the hack job of a haircut she’d been given during training not yet grown out. Quite a first impression they’d made on each other. 

Olivier couldn’t remember exactly what had happened, only they had been afraid that Cathy wouldn’t make it—were worried enough to be the ones to blink first, break the radio silence. It was bugging her, as she lay in bed, trying to remember what had made Cathy so sick. She didn’t know why it mattered now, anyway. She hadn’t died, or suffered any long-lasting effects. That she knew of at least, and there wasn’t much reason why she would, Olivier thought bitterly. They weren’t close—she could count on one hand the number of times she and Cathy had even been in the same room with each other. 

She wonders if she’ll be there when Cathy dies. Probably not—between her line of work and their age difference, Olivier will most likely go first. 

She doesn’t sleep much that night. Her body hurts, and her mind is too loud. She’s in a terrible mood come morning. Knows she’s acting like a bitch but doesn’t care. Henschel brings her coffee periodically, gives her updates on the fort. Her men know her well enough to keep their heads down and stay out of her way. But Alex hovers, following her around until she threatens to cut him up and feed him to the grizzlies. 

She goes to his room that night, though. Doesn’t knock, just sits down on the edge of his bed and quietly asks him about the Ishvalan Civil War. She knows the two of them are not the same—yes, she feels the death of her soldiers like a bullet, but isn’t emotional like he is. Considers herself somewhat stunted in that area. Knows, deep down, that that’s why Miles left—because she doesn’t know to feel. When emotions get too big, she shuts down. 

Alex, on the other hand, wears his heart on his sleeve. 

They sit in the dark, talking. Just talking. Like they used to when they were kids. He tells her about being ordered to box in fleeing Ishvalans, how they were shot like fish in a barrel. How the gunmen had missed two, how he made a hole in the wall so the two women could escape, but Kimblee killed them anyway. How he can still picture their faces when he closes his eyes. 

She tells him of her early days in the military, her training, and the things that happened after, how they taught her to detach from herself, turn off her emotions. How she doesn’t think she’s ever been able to turn all of them back on again. How “unfeeling” became her default setting. 

He calls her Ollie, and she lets him. 

For the first time in her life, she wants to go home. Even if she’s not sure where home is at the moment. 

When, two days later, the men she sent out still haven’t returned, she leads a small party after them. 

They find them after a few hours of riding—or, rather, they find what’s left of them, and the Drachmans responsible for their delay. Some of the men from the original mission have survived, although they’re in possession of far fewer limbs than they went out with. 

These Drachmans aren’t the usual meatheads they encounter out here: they’ve anticipated her arrival, clearly have orders to capture, not kill. Regardless, the outcome is inevitable, and they engage. 

One of the Drachmans is using one of the not-quite-dead Briggsmen as a shield. He’s one of the ones they came out here to find. He’s missing both legs, doesn’t have much time left. Makes eye contact with his General, gives a slight nod and raises his hand in a weak salute. She runs them both through with her sword before his hand falls. 

The Drachman evidently did not expect this, and dives on her as she pulls her sword free. The bank they land on gives way, and the three of them fall with it in a tangle of limbs, land hard on the ice below. 

Half conscious and as good as buried, Olivier watches the snow turn red with their blood and realizes that she’s having trouble breathing. Wonders if she’ll die here. The snow’s packed tight around her, and she only has half an arm free. She manages to clear some snow off her face, enough that she can breathe, and see the blue sky. One last time. 

She doesn’t know how much time has passed when she opens her eyes again. But it’s loud and something’s hurting her shoulder. 

“Not dead.” She says to herself, a test as much as an affirmation. She’s surprised when her statement is met with a gruff laugh. Henschel. The pain in her shoulder is his grip, shaking her awake as they dig her out. 

Olivier glares up at him, out of habit more than anything. “Henschel!” She snaps. 

“Sir?” 

“I’m appointing you as my new adjutant.” 

“Yes Sir!” He gives her the smallest of smiles.


End file.
